Pyschological Mutterings
by Unessential
Summary: Harry is depressed after the War concludes. So they lock him up in a room, with parchment to let go of his feelings. But what they expect is not what they get.


**Pyschological Mutterings**

….

Those dots mark the passing of time. I've been sitting, in front of a piece of parchment, my quill hanging limply, trying to write something, something that would just waste time.

But what is there to write about? I can still imagine the blood on the battlefield, the tortured faces screaming for help, the bodies piled on top of each other, screaming my name, pleading for help.

They say I should be happy, we won after all. But victory came at such a price, too high of a price. Was it victory? Or did we still lose to Lord Voldemort?

Orphans are everywhere. Did they have a victory, an afterparty? All those orphans. I should have saved the parents, I had the power to do so. But now, they're scattered, and I can never trace them.

I should get my mind off this topic, they said I should. Isn't it ironic, that after I won, others still command me?

Dumbledore and his long spindly fingers interlocked together, he commanded me, manipulated me, used me. And others, in a web of machinations. Still now, I cannot comprehend what he did. And the perfection with which he managed it. No one ever knew what he was planning; even Lord Voldemort, with access to me and Snape, he would have only possessed a garbled version of Dumbledore's plans. As he obviously intended.

How much of my life was planned? Were those escapades my friends reminisce about fondly, were those planned episodes Dumbledore carried out? I am not bitter about Albus. After all, his plan saved the Wizarding World…but did I have to become the equivalent of a puppet prancing in strings, jerking every time the almighty Headmaster commanded me to?

The Man Who Conquered, an evolution of the previous epithet they called me, the Boy Who Lived? But was I ever a boy? Boy implied that I had a childhood, and ten years of locked up under the stairs does not constitute a childhood.

Of course, Dumbledore knew about this. He had his spies, watching me, modifying my behaviour. I had to view him as a saviour, a saviour who reached into the depths of hell and plucked my form out, so he could mould me into the heroic sacrificial lamb.

I do not blame him. I had to die. But maybe I should have taken the plunge, maybe I should have stayed dead. Death would have been better, then a life of being tortured by your own memories, your own soul, yourself.

Do not think that I am suicidal, I have never been suicidal, never been a masochist. Death or pain is too much of a potent reminder of what I've suffered, what others have suffered. I am just a coward, a cowardly Gryffindor, scared of the future, if what awaits me can be called a future. For the word future implies uncertainty about what is going to happen, but I only have two paths right now, and in the next thirty minutes, it will be clear which path has been taken.

All the others, they live happy lives. But is their happiness a façade, a shield from the darkness? I wear my pain on my sleeve, for others to pity and torment. Others keep their pain locked up, silently screaming. No one notices their silent screaming.

Yes, I am a tortured soul, waiting for the arrival of Death, the swing of his gleaming scythe. Maybe I can hide; after all I am the Master of Death, just like Dumbledore intended.

Maybe I should name one of my children after Dumbledore, not to honour him, but to honour what he has done for me, how he has made me a husk of a human breathing who has all of the primeval functions intact, but who cannot experience happiness. I do not even know if I want children.

They pressure me, they tell me I must have marriage. I did not know, or expect early marriages were the norm. Did you not need time to settle on your feet? But what could I expect from a Victorian society who were proud of their stagnation?

I expect that they want me to marry, have a household of kids. I will be an Auror, and capture swathes of Death Eaters, then have a meteoric rise to Minister of Magic, and die at some ridiculously old age. It is prophetic.

The pressure builds, pushing me on paths I do not want to take, whisking me past the paths that sing. I do not want to be an Auror, capturing Death Eaters. I have had enough of war and blood and gore. Such a waste of life.

But I am the Chosen One, I am the one which the flawed Wizarding world looks to, for guidance and support. I am the messiah, the youthful Dumbledore.

I hear footsteps outside the door.

* * *

They came again, and demanded to see what I wrote. I brandished a blank sheet of parchment. They said I had to start writing, so I could escape the emotions. But I don't want to escape, I can't. Fate has decreed for me to be ensnared my emotions, and be pulled down into a lifetime of insanity. And I want it, it is my only escape from the life that has been mapped out for me. Yet I still must walk it, and everyone will think I am alright, but I'm screaming for help.

Am I already insane? Have I gone mental? I cannot answer that question, nor can I gain the answer from others, for if I am mental, how can I know what others are saying?

The pendulum of life is swinging, the tick tocks of an impatient Death. He waits for me behind every corner. I have cheated him too many times.

And like the pendulum, I am swinging from side to side, glancing on different subjects, so when I am gone, people may understand what I have done.

The bottle has rolled across my paper, brushing the ink into one huge stoke of black. The colour of black, screaming at me, waiting for death to take me in his grasp.

I used to be a happy soul, used to believe in the grandeur of life. But I have become disillusioned. There is nothing left for me in this world. I have fought, I have won, and now what?

A person without duty develops too many dangerous notions. A person must always have duty, always have something to strive for, so they can clear their minds of ludicrous philosophical wanderings. I have failed. I have nothing to strive for, for I have done what I was supposed to and more.

I was never supposed to live this long. I was supposed to die with the Dark Lord. But in a farcical confrontation, my ideas were turned on its head. He died so quickly, so easily, so anti-climatically. He did not fight back, but he never needed to. He has defeated me from beyond the grave, so I must join him, so I can fight him on equal terms.

The aftermath of the war was horrible. I realized what had happened while I was on my Hocrux jaunt; millions had died. The death toll had quickly spiked, so the deaths were innumerable. I should have stopped it, but instead I ran.

Was the Hocrux Hunt a hunt or a run? Was I hunting Voldemort, or running away? I cannot answer those questions that demean the purpose of my life, as everything is slowly going into a haze.

That Muggle bottle is working. And unless someone is worried enough, they will not find me before it was too late.

* * *

They came again, and were suspicious of my sluggish movements. They demanded to know what I was doing, for I showed them a spare, a blank, empty sheet of parchment. A metaphor for my life.

They left, and said they will come back later. But by then, it will be too late to save me.

But then again, it has always been too late to save me. The notions of a war hero, who is dying slowly because he cannot cope, he cannot face up to what is happening next. Because everyone is happy, when everyone has died. I am too much of a coward to fight; I have given up. I was entitled to that, at least.

**So what do you think? My first attempt at a fanfic. Normally don't write suicidal things, but I was just reading a book that dealt with this stuff. After the First Death by Robert Cormier if you are interested.**


End file.
